Comanche Gold by Richard Dawes Page B

the chair
to her right and stared at Tucson in unabashed wonder.
    Of the others, George Bentley recovered
first. “Welcome, my boy!” he cried effusively. “Welcome...” He
waved a hand toward the empty chair. “Come in and sit down.”
    Bentley’s melodious voice seemed to release
the other diners from their discomfort, and they sat down along
with Tucson. The men watched Tucson with unconcealed interest,
while the two spinsters, who seemed a bit paler than Tucson
remembered, scrutinized him timidly from the corners of their
eyes.
    “Have I missed something?” Tucson asked
politely, glancing around the table. “I seem to be the subject of
quite a bit of interest.”
    “What do you expect, my boy?” Bentley spoke
up. “What do you expect? The whole town's talking about your
gunfight last night at the Elkhorn Saloon. It's not every evening
that we have the opportunity to sit down with the man who beat both
Ramon Vasquez and Wolf Cabot to the draw—at the same time! By the
way,” he added, pulling a pencil and a notepad from his jacket
pocket, “I was wondering if you would mind giving me an exclusive
interview. Sort of give me your side of the story.”
    “Hell's Fire!” McMannus exploded, unable to
contain himself any longer. “I can't believe I wasn't there to
watch your back. And to think...” He slammed his palm angrily down
on the table, “I almost stopped by the Elkhorn last night for a
drink.”
    “You must be very brave,” murmured one of the
women, then she blushed furiously at having spoken.
    “What's it like, facing up to a situation
like that?” asked one of the men. He was bald, soft and white, and
had the air of a shopkeeper.
    “Please!” Catherine's voice halted the
questions. “Maybe Tucson doesn't want to talk about it right now.
We should eat our supper and leave him in peace.”
    Tucson, undisturbed by the questions, was
helping himself to the platter of pot roast. He glanced around the
table and smiled good-naturedly. “It's alright. Interest in that
sort of thing is natural.”
    He looked across at the newspaperman. “Sorry,
Bentley, but I don't give interviews. There were plenty of
witnesses, though, and they can give you all the information you
need.”
    To McMannus, he said, “It's a good thing you didn't stop by the saloon last night, Tom. You might've
gotten yourself hurt.”
    “Awe, Tucson...!” McMannus got out; but
Tucson had already turned his attention to the spinster.
    “I'm not sure 'brave' is the right word to
use, ma'am,” he said pleasantly. “When a gunfight goes down, you
just do what you have to do, and hope like hell it works.”
    The poor woman was almost overwhelmed that
Tucson had spoken to her directly. Blushing again, she began
stabbing at her food with her fork.
    Then Tucson glanced at the shopkeeper.
    “As far as what it's like to face that kind
of a situation...” He paused as he thought about it. “I'd say it's
just plain tough. Just before the action starts you don't know if
you're going to come out of it alive or not. And that's not a very
pleasant feeling. But once you're in it, all of that falls away.”
Tucson’s voice began to throb with excitement, and the others
listened to him with rapt attention. “Your mind clears,” he went
on, gesturing with his hands. “All your senses tune up a notch, a
feeling of exaltation takes over, and it feels sort of like a
dance. And when you're on you can sense what your opponent
is going to do almost before he does it. If you get wounded,” he
concluded, “most of the time you don't notice it until it's all
over - unless you're dead, of course.”
    The others at the table maintained a
thoughtful silence after he had finished. Bentley was scribbling
furiously in his notepad with his pencil. Tom McMannus sat
disconsolately holding his head in his hands, staring at his plate
as if he were going to cry. Catherine watched Tucson, her hazel
eyes glowing affectionately and a warm smile playing about